


The Dry!Series

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-10
Updated: 2005-04-09
Packaged: 2018-12-26 17:32:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12063735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: AU : Highschool!series. Re-post of several one-shots, now put in order for easier reading.Chapter 1:: Sneakers - Brian and Justin meet.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

It is the first pep rally of the new school year. The principle stuffs all of the classifications and social ranks of teenagers into the gymnasium, shouting with a microphone while the noise level on the bleachers rises higher and higher, vibrating the metal rafters. Band playing, drum rolls echoing, and the cheerleaders shrill little chants that never drown out the obnoxious squeak of their brand-new sneakers on the glossy floorboards. 

 

Justin rolls his head back and stares out the skylight at the pale, unnaturally cold September weather, and he can't help but feel offended for it that they'd dare to have an event like this on a day like today. This was the kind of afternoon where you went home and collapsed on your flannel comforter and gazed at the cracks on your ceiling until it got too dark to see them anymore, or your mom called you down for dinner. 

 

But instead he was here, in this whirrling carousel of school colors, flourescent lights, and marching band trumpets that sounded like a migraine instead of music.

 

"This shit drives me fucking insane," the boy next to him says, slouching so that his long back stretched in a perfect bow.

 

"I think the cheerleaders are the only ones who like it," Justin agrees, noting with an artists ever-watching mind that the kid's voice seems to stand out more than the deafening noise around them.

 

"They only like it so that they can break in their new sports bras."

 

"And get fucked in their cars later by football players who get hard from watching them bounce around in those dumb little skirts for an hour." Justin surprises even himself for saying it, and almost apologizes until the boy snorts in amused agreement and turns his head to face him. 

 

"My name's Brian."

 

"Justin," he replies, offering his hand politely. Brian raises an eyebrow at him, and Justin pulls his hand back, rubs self-consciously it on his tea-dyed jeans.

 

"Do you think Principle Marks knows we don't care?" Brian nods towards the display, eyes dark and apathetic.

 

Justin shrugs, shoulder brushing against Brian's. "It's his job to try to make us."

 

The cheerleaders and jocks start throwing inflated balls bearing the mascot's face into the bleachers of students, and Justin feels overwhelmingly smothered by it. He glances up at the skylight again, yearning for the day.

 

"Hey, are you okay? You look like shit," Brian says, fingers flex like he is about to reach out, but then they smooth down his own abdomen, thin tee-shirt rippling against the hard youthful muscles.

 

"I'm um... feelin-"

 

"Want to get out of here?"

 

Justin feels his skull rattle with shrill cheers, and he looks directly into Brian's calm, wise hazel eyes that look like the sky in the skylight. Feel like _peace_.

 

All Justin needs to do is nod, and Brian has their backpacks, their jackets, and their bodies down under the bleachers in record time, with only one surprised outcry from Daphne Chanders, who was sitting behind him and thought that they'd get in "sooo much trouble!" if they got caught sneaking out.

 

Their sneakers are silent on the asphalt of the parking lot, and the zipper tabs of their backpacks make a steady tin clicking with each step they take away from the school, and towards the horizon. Brian pulls his hood up, a faded black cotton that clashes with his brown hair, but blends in with the subtle grey sky that is misting so thick and smells like earth and pumpkin candles. Breeze whips their jackets, making them snap and flutter, muffled and strange.

 

"So, you're a senior, right?" Justin can't help but talk, it feels like he's supposed to.

 

Brian's hands fist in the front pocket of his hoodie, "Yeah, you?"

 

"Senior. Held back a year though."

 

"What for?"

 

Justin is grateful for the mottled pale light of the afternoon, grateful for the way it makes all the lines of the sidewalks, the street, the hard edges of houses and porch stairs into an endless haze. It does the same to his mind, and his answer, and what it reveals.

 

"I left my old school... amidst some... controversy?"

 

"Is that a question?"

 

"No, it's just... it sounds so pathetic to say I left a stuffy private school because of controversy, you know? Cliche, and annoying."

 

Flick and snap of a lighter, Brian's motions are achingly graceful. Cigarette smoke begins to swirl into the fog, and Justin wants to draw THOSE angles and lines of Brian's hand and the long white slash of the burning paper roll.

 

"So what was the controversy?"

 

"Rival with another student... accusations of sexual harrasment and assault. It wasn't pretty."

 

Brian has the balls to chuckle, loose and smoky, "Was he?"

 

"Was he what?" 

 

"Pretty."

 

Relief washes through Justin, like sneakers finally hitting asphalt after being caged in the auditorium.

 

"He was alright."

 

They both smile, certain and knowing. 

 

"So, Brian," Justin says his name in a hooking tone, bouncing his bag on his back and tilting his head towards the other boy, "what are you doing after you graduate?"

 

"Hopefully going to college like everybody else. Gotta get out of this fucking town and away from my goddamn parents, you know?"

 

"Oh come on, tell me what you really think," Justin jokes. It makes Brian laugh again.

 

"Who has time for bullshit, right? Seriously, the world is my fucking playground," He tilts his chin back and smiles into the sky, and Justin wonders where the dark boy that was curled inside himself at school went, "Gonna go to New York or something. What about you?"

 

"Well, if my father has his way, I'll be a business major at Dartmouth."

 

"And if Little Justin gets his way?"

 

"Rent's expensive in the Big Apple, you'll need a roommate," Justin's wit is as fast as his new crush. Cliched term, real emotion.

 

"And what would you do in New York City?"

 

"Mmm, be utterly, fucking inspired. Put all of that energy of the center of America right into my art. All those bright flashing electronic billboards with celebrities that stretch stories upon stories over your head. Obnoxious, but so fucking _alive_."

 

"...Because things are dead around here."

 

"Well, yeah. Don't you notice it?"

 

"I wasn't asking. I was agreeing." He flicks the cigarette butt into the street, where it flips into a dozen orange sparks that get blown away by the crisp breeze. It blows Brian's hood off and wraps it around the side of his neck, and Justin has the urge to reach up and fix it.

 

He goes with that urge.

 

Brian just stares at him through his lashes, his head ducked, and Justin doesn't want to let go of the soft black cotton, fingers tucked under it and against the warm plane of Brian's fabric-covered back.

 

"An artist, huh?" Brian's voice is nearly halting, tightly packed with atmosphere and earth.

 

Justin pulls back his hand, "Yeah."

 

In another perfect movement, Brian's hand darts out and wraps around Justin's wrist, stopping it's retreat and holding it between them. He pulls it closer to him.

 

"That explains all the stains on your fingers."

 

A blush rises through Justin's body, and he wishes for once in his life that he didn't have stains on his fingers, or hesitation in his voice, and that something about him could be deemed _acceptable_.

 

Brian takes a step forward, towards Justin. Puts his hand on his shoulder, and pushes him towards a row of thick trees, firmly, with a look that screams unspeakable whispers.

 

The foggy afternoon didn't make Justin feel breathless until now.

 

The intent tilt of Brian's head is open, gives freedom for Justin to flee, or stay; sneakers sinking into the moist soil and trampled grass that smells alive as it dies, giving absolution to two teenage boys taking refuge in the dark foliage and making that... leap. The kind that Changes Everything.

 

Introductions are over, like the summer and heat, leaving behind a void in which they have control. Brian takes it, leaning down and brushing his gently rough lips against Justin's. 

 

And then Justin becomes acceptable, reborn anew in fog and the unique feeling of _belonging_ to this taller, younger, steadier boy he goes to school with. He feels like a man, feels like THIS was what he was looking for when he was staring out the skylight of the gymnasium's iron eaves. 

 

Brian must feel the same way, since they both whimper-moan slightly at the wet sound of their mouths opening to each others for the first time. Their foreheads slide together, fingers curl into shaggy, wind-whipped hair and clutch at jackets over heaving chests. Dry melding of lips, pressing the softness so it is crushed between teeth and jaw, and when their teeth clash, hungry and jolting, their bodies do too. There is a mindless freefall, tipping over into swollen desire and spit that tastes achingly sweet.

 

"Oh fuck, Brian," Justin whispers, moist and hot, into Brian's gasping mouth.

 

Brian's eyes flutter open, lashes whispy like the haze in the pine tree nettles that are their cover, "I just...I had to do that."

 

Justin answers by smoothing one hand up the cold edge of zipper, fingers following it all the way to Brian's neck. He covers the rapid pulse with his lips, and Brian tilts his chin back, carefree and satisfied by the fluttering of Justin's tongue on the skin.

 

Sobs are caught in Justin's chest, that unravelling disbelief and elation that feels like thousands of stars bursting in his lungs. His eyebrows scrunched, mouth open on Brian's again, tongues heavy and thirsty and winding. He wants to crawl inside Brian's jacket, shirt, skin and exist only for him.

 

Which is, of course, ridiculous. They just met.

 

More desperate kisses begin to ebb into parting, like the light from the day. Words fail, like the moon's attempt to shine through the cold misty sky. They walk home, distant and quiet like the air that they breathe, like the sound of their shoes on the damp pavement. And then Justin's paint-stained fingers curl into Brian's jeans belt loop, and the stars inside explode when the corners of Brian's lips twitch upward in a soft, rare, _always perfect_ smile.


	2. The Dry!Series

The next morning dawns brilliant and clear. The shadows are long and blue, and the cold cracked concrete of the highway stretches into the sunbathed horizon with promise, like a long inviting carpet. Walk, ride, run, just take the road. Anything can happen. And a bunch of other Hallmark expressions.

 

Field trips always seem exciting when they're being talked about. Announcements, permission slips, money orders... all the organized political nonsense that leads up to taking 250 seniors to Gettysburg for a day dominates the weeks before it happens. The kids get excited just because thats a whole school day that they don't have to be in a classroom.

 

Slanted seven o'clock sunlight saturates Justin's morning walk to school, and he moves slowly, wandering back and forth over the sidewalk, in a sleepy, daydreaming sort of way. His head feels drowsy, and that might have something to do with the lack of sleep from the night before. But it was too hard to drift off peacefully when his mind kept replaying the kiss with Brian, the taste, the smell, the feeling of his larger, harder body holding Justin's. The more Justin thought about it, the more aroused he'd get until his skin felt too hot and oversensitized and he could feel every single thread of his sheets against his naked body.

 

Students file into the school buses, all mumbling through yawns and chipped yellow paint. Seating assignments on a clipboard point Justin into the last bus, the one with only eight teenagers, all of them wearing earphones, and Justin feels comfortable and relieved. 

 

The heater under the seat clicks and whirls, and makes Justin's legs so hot that he has to pull his knees up against his chest, the courderoy smelling like warm, musty electricity. The windows fog up a little from his breath, and the bus rocks gently when the severely overweight driver settles heavily into the front seat. Strangely silent, eerily still, like the calm before the storm and Justin's just about to drift asleep with the cold damp window pressed against his forehead when an old car with a bad muffler pulls into the parking lot. 

 

Unfashionably arriving fashionably late. Justin's heart flips and flutters like gravel sprayed by a spinning tire.

 

He watches Brian in his father's car for a few minutes, the spotted stains and scratches on the flimsy bus window making the scene look dirtier than it should. Or maybe the scene is just plain dirty, like the hunched 40-something man in the thick plaid coat and the churlish expression who is obviously Brian's father. Brian gets out of the car suddenly, his long body tense and angry, and he slams the door behind him, before striding purposefully to the last bus. A squirrelly little teacher is about to speak up, tell him to check the bus assignments first, but turns the other way and bothers herself with something else.

 

Brian looks too tall for the bus, standing at the top of the steps, at the end of the aisle, like this dark embodiment of young masculinity. His hazel eyes sweep the bus and it's passengers with a look of disdain, until they land on Justin.

 

Justin wants to avert his eyes, let the sleepiness of the morning be his excuse for retreating into himself, but then _god_ , when their eyes meet, everything sort of melts.

 

"This seat taken?" Some anger has faded from his face, and is replaced with an intoxicating look of amusement and subtle flirtation.

 

"You always use lines like that?" Sharp and assholic response. 

 

Brian's lips curled into a smile of respect, and he leans down so his head is only a couple of inches from Justin's, whispers carefully,

 

"Only for hot older blonds with fucking fantastic kissing skills."

 

Justin rolls his eyes, but feels his gut grow hot with desire, "Well, it wasn't a very good line. Maybe you should get new material. Hot older blonds are not easily impressed."

 

Brian huffs a nearly silent laugh, looks both ways, almost edgy again, "So, can I sit with you, or what?"

 

"Of course you can," Justin says, giving away his eagerness to be near Brian again.

 

He slides in enough that their shoulders and thighs are pressed together, and Justin feels so fucking _relieved_ that he is finally being touched.

 

The bus's careful rumbling increases to a jolting vibration as it begins to move, a long line of yellow trailing out of the school parking lot and towards the turnpike heading east. And not five minutes down the road, Brian's hand takes advantage of the unconsciousness of the few other students on board, and slides over to Justin's leg.

 

His fingertips follow the threads of the material, the soft ridges that tighten over Justin's knee, and stretch up his thigh, over and over, back and forth, like he is addicted to the feel. Justin looks up at him, entranced with the way his shaggy brown hair falls over his forehead, and the way his mouth is parted, lips pale and crisp like a painting. Hazy web of seduction laces around them, drowsy and lustful, and Brian lets his fingers smooth all the way up to the top of Justin's inner thigh, almost touching his groin, but not quite; his eyes following his hand.

 

"I thought- I thought a lot about... last night," nearly silent whisper from his bent head, cool and filling Justin's ear. 

 

Justin closes his eyes and tilts his head, Brian's nose at his temple, his lips on his cheekbone.

 

"Me too," Justin admits in a whisper, cracked like the paint on the bus.

 

"Thought about the way you taste... thought about what'd it be like to..." Brian trails off, and Justin doesn't mind because he knows what he was going to say. 

 

The bus driver up front begins coughing like a lifetime smoker, and then turns on fucking country music, and it's enough to dispel the erotic fog that was surrounding the two boys.

 

"We should, like, find a bathroom when we stop," Justin says, smiling, fingers fiddling with the button on Brian's cuff. 

 

Brian grabs Justin's fingers and looks down at them, thumb playing over two stains that Justin tried vigorously to wash out, "I'm definitely up for it."

 

The bus turns onto the turnpike and the new angle causes the sun to streak into their seat, burning patterns into the fabric of their clothes, and Justin decides he wants to feel the heat on Brian's stomach.

 

No sooner does his hand settle onto Brian's taut abdomen, Brian is hissing and moving away from Justin's touch.

 

Suddenly the sunlight is too glaring, and the passengers on the bus are too silent, and the highway looks like a desolate staircase to something that holds no potential.

 

"What the-" Justin starts, and Brian's hand grabs onto his and brings it back to his stomach.

 

"I forgot. It's okay. Just - careful, okay?"

 

"Look, Brian, I don't kno-" Justin tries to pull his hand out of Brian's, but it's held fast.

 

"Don't," is all he says, a soft, gruff, unguarded word, and Brian pushes Justin's palm back on his stomach, "Keep it there."

 

Something tells Justin that Brian will never ever beg, and never has, but this would be as close as he'd ever come to pleading for something. The wild look in his hazel eyes is the same that was there when he climbed onto the best, only drained of anger. He _needs_ Justin's touch.

 

They both look out the window, watching the Pennsylvania forests and hills go by, streaky from speed. The sunlight flashes and splatters against them and their faces, and Justin slips into a doze feeling Brian's fingers smoothing up and down his own, the tight, tender belly rising and falling under his palm. Warm, alive, and full of promise.


	3. The Dry!Series

This chapter is in both points of view. Don't be confused.

 

\----------------------------------------------------------

 

The first time Brian fucks Justin is in the gritty, abandoned dark of the boy's locker room after school. It's primal and needy, because after weeks of foreplay, it's time to explode.

 

Brian is possibly too rough, angry and annoyed with himself after spending two hours in detention for the fourth time this month. Justin just seems to enjoy the punishment because _he_ spent the last two hours in an honor's society meeting, and hates himself for it.

 

Justin thinks that maybe they were drawn to each other in the first place was because they were both stuck; he in an endless carousel of being A Good Son/Student and lacking inspiration, and Brian in the violent cyclone of Troubled Youth. It makes sense, especially now, with his face pressed against a locker and a hard cock up his ass.

 

Whatever it is that made this happen, made it feel so right, Justin is grateful for it. 

 

And Brian is too, feeling the smaller body of the boy swing back and accept the thrusts with timed perfection. He fists Justin's dick, fingers nudging the heavy balls, as he breaths in the smell of sweat in the blond hair behind Justin's ear. 

 

"We're - going - to - have - to - do - this - more - often - from - now - on," Justin cranes his head back, gasps against Brian's lips.

 

Brian's tongue laps at Justin's moist bottom lip before he grunts back, "More - often? Fuck, - we're - doing - this - again - right - after - this."

 

The head of Brian's rubber-covered penis drags over Justin's prostate, and he writhes in tortured delight.

 

" _Jesus_."

 

Justin's hissed word is rusty and echoes off the tile and lockers, useless like the clawing his hand is currently doing to the doors; worn out locker doors with decades of school years, and dozens of coats of paint on them.

 

Brian wonders how many times they've been fucked against. 

 

He sweeps his hand up Justin's arched, taut, boy belly and chest, until he's clasping his throat through the collar of the white tee-shirt. Feels the breath and groans in the skin, thrumming and alive. His skin feels so young and fresh, like a little child just starting to go through puberty, and as Justin's voice cracks with another moan, it sounds like the skin feels. Fourteen year old prize that Brian has the pleasure of possessing.

 

Justin comes first, shooting hot, lush spurts of ejaculate all over the metal in front of him, and lets his hand fall to clutch Brian's ass, pulling him into his body as hard as possible. He hopes he leaves finger-shaped bruises on Brian's body.

 

Then the flaring heat of Brian's orgasm in his ass makes him squeeze his eyes shut, forehead falling against the steel, and he rubs his sweat against the coldness.

 

"Fucking' A," Brian whispers into his ear; longer, taller body sagging against Justin's back.

 

"Yeah." is all Justin can say, and it's enough. 

 

Their lips meet again, tongues sliding and twisting in each other's mouths, filling each other with saliva and unspoken words while Brian's softening cock slips from Justin's hole. It leaves a void, and Justin misses it with each sweep of Brian's tongue along the roof of his mouth.

 

"Again?" he asks around the kiss, and Brian nods and steps back.

 

"In the shower."

 

"And after that?"

 

"Again."

 

"Good," Justin says, and faintly smiles. 

 

And the lack of inspiration, and the Troubled Youth melts away as Brian clasps his hand and leads him to the empty and dark locker room showers.


	4. The Dry!Series

Autumn is a time for change. 

 

A mysterious, untouched sort of time. Every year it seemed just when it could be grasped, it'd slip away into winter, not to return for long springs and endless summers. The world gets crisp, curling with blankets of brown and orange. Leaves cover the yellow grass, and the wind sounds like trumpets born on the back of everlasting rustling. Sharp blue skies, and streaming sunlight through clouds hinting at snow. Change is a living thing, autumn is it's showcase. It's annual fanfare, only appreciated by those who notice.

 

And Justin does.

 

Laying on his back here, he watches it all unfold, feels autumn curling around his limbs, and whipping through his hair. Here with his head on his boyfriend's stomach, change is unfurling into the future, and Justin is ready to reach out and touch it.

 

"It feels older every year," Brian says, voice cool and dry, humming against Justin's head.

 

"What does?"

 

"Fall."

 

"It is, I guess," Justin says, rolling onto his stomach and settling his chin in the woven bristles of Brian's wool sweater, "Older like us. I think... I think we grow with it."

 

Brian has one arm arched over his head, fingers loosely tangled in his shaggy brown hair, looking like a god in the golden grass, lips slightly chapped like his words, "Kinda like how Christmas gets less and less exciting every year, right?"

 

"Burden of growing up."

 

The sun is setting behind the hill they lay on, setting the atmosphere on fire in long brushstrokes until it tapers into the approaching night. The breeze is colder and loud in their ears.

 

"It's kind of sad," Brian almost whispers, other hand coming to Justin's head now and playing with his hair. Comb, smooth, tug; comb, smooth, tug; comb, smooth, tug.

 

"Only if you think of the future as a bad thing," Justin buries his nose into the sweater, inhaling cigarette smoke and the scent of Brian.

 

"It just fades so fucking fast. Then it's just...gone. And you look back, and you _think_ you had it good then, but you're really just fooling yourself, right? Because now, in this moment, you don't feel like you have it good. You feel like shit. Because life is always shit. Fading, quick, and cold, you know?"

 

Justin loves when Brian's mind runs away with him. It's like he's witnessing his being in the making, secret and intense. He's never been much for secrets, which is why they do so well in high school, so upfront about their homosexuality. But sometimes, in these dim moments of fleeting change and saturated words, he needs to know that there are so many pieces of Brian that only belong to him. Broken, perfect pieces that are tragically ancient for someone so young.

 

"Do you think this moment is for shit, Brian?" Justin asks quietly, peering at him over the long brown-covered expanse of his chest. Brian raises his head and looks down at him, eyes sharp and serious.

 

"Fuck, Justin," he practically gasps, incredulous that Justin would think that.

 

Hands grip Justin's hair and pull him up to his knees before they slide along his neck, cold and clinging to his head to keep him still. Keep him staring straight at Brian.

 

"Justin," voice so earnest and pleading, like the painted sky and the wind all in one, "Never- " crack, swallow, "Fuck. It's never for shit with you."

 

Their lips meet, dry and genuine. Justin feels like he can't get close enough and whimpers desperately when their mouths open and tongues slide together, full of unspoken words. Brian presses his palm against Justin's cheek, fingers clawing into his skin as if he wanted to peel it back so he could crawl inside. 

 

"I love you," Justin whispers into Brian's slack mouth, their foreheads pushed together so hard it nearly aches. Brian's arms wrap around Justin's slight waist, and he pulls his body flush against his own. 

 

They roll, Justin's legs spreading wantonly, courderoy and denim grinding together as Brian moves his hips in deep, attentive thrusts. Brian buries his face in Justin's neck, breathing deeply and sighing like he's never been more content in any other place in the world, and Justin thinks thats probably true.

 

"Brian," he says softly into his ear, lips moving against the heated curves of skin, "Brian, I don't care about.. getting old, and fading away. Let's just stay like this, an' we'll be okay. We've got to be."

 

Brian pulls back to look down at him silently. 

 

Then he kisses him, abrupt and fervid, sweeping him and his doubts away. Answering his pleas in affirmation.

 

_Yes_ , I won't worry.

 

_Yes_ , we'll stay this way.

 

_Yes_ , I love you.

 

They make love right there on the hill behind the school, sun already set against the hills of Pittsburgh, and shadows long and blue on the dry grass. Brian keeps his arms cradled against Justin's body, keeping him warm from inside of him and against him and around him. Breath hot and moist against each other's lips, whispered words of affection and promise, feeling so much older than they are, and feeling that maybe, maybe it isn't so sad. They both come with brilliant groans and content sighs, and Brian stays inside him, their fingers linked tightly until it gets too dark to see each other's faces. 

 

And around them, the autumn continues it's fanfare for change. Change for the season, change for the world, change for them. It's dry and rustling, but its real.


	5. The Dry!Series

Dead autumn rain against the windowpanes feels slightly reminiscent of a home Brian has never had. A place that doesn't really exist, except for in these moments of dim reflection and rushing silence; Justin standing at an easel and painting in the empty classroom. The rain makes a sound that is constant and timed, like crickets on a summer night, but so much more trustworthy; a sinking sensation of comfort made of fog and fleece. The wind whistles in melancholy violin strains against the glass, rain pinning battered leaves to the soaking-wet sill, like the reenactment of a tragedy. 

 

Brian always assumed that to paint, you needed the best light possible so that each color could be used precisely, but watching Justin paint, shrouded in the desolate greens and honest golds of a rainy day, he doesn't think so. Justin seems to be using the dooming light to work for him, just as absolute as if he were painting in the most brilliant noon that ever existed.

 

"Are you bored?" Justin asks him, living voice strange in the abandoned room. He taps a paintbrush against a glass jar filled to the brim with water, fingers covered with stripes and splatters of so many bold colors that Brian wonders if they'll seep into his skin and become part of him.

 

"Not bored," he responds with a shrug, tilting his face back towards the mystery of the rain-riveted windowpanes, "Rather be here than home."

 

Justin nods, his posture quiet and elegant as he drags a paintbrush over the rough canvas, the bristles full of slippery paint.

 

"I like to be here... when school is over, and the teachers have all gone home to get drunk or grade papers. It kind of inspires me. Mrs. Ketchman is really cool for trusting me to be in here after-hours."

 

Brian makes a small masculine sound in his chest to acknowledge his boyfriend's words. His fingers run absently up and down the grain of wood on the surface of the desk he sits on, legs dangling and heels beating against the metal legs in time with the rainfall, tempered and soothing. The air smells like paint and public school paste and floor cleaner from the janitor down the hall, and it laces a haze of sleepiness around Brian.

 

He might have drifted off, because minutes or hours later, Justin is satisfied, and rouses Brian from which ever faraway horizon of thought he was entertaining in twisted technicolor or subtle shadow.

 

Justin steps back from the angled easel, and crosses his arms over his chest, tight blue shirt stretching over his back. Brian thinks it matches the clouds over the world today, all taut and just plain _right_.

 

"Come look at it," Justin turns and looks at him, voice and eyes a matching grey.

 

His sneakers squeak against the olive green tiles as Brian comes to stand behind Justin, staring at the shimmering canvas of moist color in surging strokes. Confident and distinct, like Justin.

 

"It's an old woman."

 

"Smiling," Justin adds. His face is glowing with sweat and tiny drops of paint that have dried on his cheekbone. Like rain.

 

"At... are those flowers?"

 

"Old women always smile at flowers," simple statement, and Justin says it like it's the most beautiful thing he's ever uttered, "I think, they like, appreciate things like that. The little things. We sure as hell don't. Like they always smile at color and children."

 

Brian shoves his hands in his jean pockets, and shrugs his shoulders forward so the redorangebrown of his plaid shirt falls over them, "I thought old ladies yelled at kids to get off their lawns?"

 

Justin flashes a silent look that tells Brian that his humor was not invited to this moment of weather-wrought reflection of his work. Brian apologizes by sighing and stepping closer, honest and giving.

 

"It's-"

 

"Thank you," Justin replies, knowing that Brian's words could never, ever be said, but knowing exactly what they mean. Trustworthy silence and familiar rain-torn leaves that feel like home.

 

A threatening gust rattles the classroom windows, and all the damp trees, bark shiny and black, bow with the force of it. Brian wraps his arms around Justin from behind, one hand sliding into his front pocket and the other around his chest; over warm fabric and sensitive skin. His cold nose nestles against the sweet-smelling heat of the hair behind Justin's ear.

 

"Brian," Justin smile-whispers, voice hitching with arousal. Painting always makes his body thrum, feel alive. He gets nearly giddy sometimes, just laughing or fucking or breathing with so much intent and passion. But right now, Brian is...

 

"Not tryin' to- I mean, I just want to-" Hold you. Be like this. Feel that thrum in your small body in the faded threadbare light of this evening.

 

Justin leans all his weight against Brian's chest, savoring the hands that cup his groin, and smooth across his throat. The careful, inspired breaths of Brian in his hair.

 

"When it doesn't rain, I miss it," Justin muses lazily, words spinning a web around them like windowpanes against a downpour. His fingers reach up and curl under Brian's soft flannel collar.

 

"The sounds?" Brian opens his mouth against Justin's earlobe, pink and delicate.

 

"And the smells. It almost smells like paint," he sighs with his eyes closed, lets out a whispy chuckle, "I might be the only person in the world who likes the smell of paint."

 

The trustworthy silence always leads to confessions that feel like flickering gold flames in the rainy fall darkness. Brian faintly smiles and admits softly,

 

"Nah. I like it too... reminds me of you. "

 

Old ladies aren't the only ones who can appreciate small things.


	6. The Dry!Series

They move together, fast and desperate, having thirsted for this moment all day long through droll classes and annoying responsibilities. Brian pushes into him hard, straining with his entire body, sweat glistening across his skin like stars. Moist breaths mingling and the constant motion, the world tilting and spinning in a great expanse of pleasure and craving for each other's hard bodies.

 

The house is empty, but loud. Full of all the sounds that Justin never notices when his family is there, and only make him jump when he is alone. Not alone now though, completely full, Brian ramming into a spot deep inside that makes him writhe and wonder about his sanity. In his peripheral vision, the blue of his walls merges with the old stencils of sailboats around the border and Justin thinks that it seems wildly perverse, yet strangely appropriate, to be having sex in his childhood bedroom.

 

A sharp breath, a groan. Damp skin sliding together in a undulating tangle, striving for the release. Heated whispers in each other's ears about raw, unbridled lust. 

 

"Fuck," Brian's halted, gasping voice.

 

Justin arches up against him and swallows that voice in his mouth, feeling it resonate in deep velvet masculinity in his gut. Clenches himself hard, as if he could hold Brian inside him for eternity.

 

"Justin," Brian rasps between their mouths, "Fuck, Ju-"

 

He cuts off as he comes, flood of warmth in Justin's body and pulsing perfection that allows him to tip into an equal free-fall.

 

The orgasm is blue like the walls with a flare of achingly red adoration, devestatingly undone.

 

Brian collapses next to him after the waves ebb, smelling like humanity and feeling so alive that everything else pales around them; warm, sated lovers.

 

Rolling to gaze at him, Justin nudges his head into the pillow like a purring kitten, tucking it against his boyfriend's damp shoulder.

 

"Good?" he asks, lips brushing Brian's skin.

 

"Fucking brilliant," Brian responds in a sigh, his hand sliding up Justin's long smooth back to tangle his fingers in his shaggy golden hair, "Where are your parents?"

 

"Soccer with Molly. They think we're studying at the library," Justin snorts softly, rolling again, "You'd think they'd know better by now."

 

"Yeah, well. Your mom's in denial and your dad's just an asshole."

 

"At least..." Justin trails off, not continuing, and just stares at the ceiling.

 

Brian's body shifts and he slips out of the bed to open the windows and grab his pack of cigarettes. Justin watches him with shadowed artist's eyes. The twilight light bending over the angles and curves in his back. The way he has transformed from man to boy right there, in the indigo tones that fill the room. Quiet and subtle and wise. 

 

Justin never thought it would be possible to be so in love.

 

The lighter clicks and snaps, and Brian carefully crawls back onto the bed, flopping down on his back with his head on Justin's boyish chest.

 

"You look so hot when you smoke," Justin's voice is breathy and soft like the smoke plume that Brian blows into the air. It gets caught in the crisp breeze coming through the window, and whisked away.

 

"You look so hot when you're laying there all sweaty after I've pounded you into the mattress," Brian grins wickedly and Justin writhes in coy delight.

 

"Fuck, I look hot all the time," he shoots back, tugging playfully on Brian's dark hair.

 

They tussle mischievously for a minute around the cigarette, snagging it from each other and taking laughing drags. Empty hands grope over already-discovered, but always-desired places and it isn't long before the cigarette is extinguished in a dirty plate next to the bed, and their lips are sealed together, tongues mimicking their body's motions.

 

The sky is deep azure outside the windows, and the room is swathed in the kind of dark that makes everything muffled and erotic. The air smells like dinner baking in someone else's house and both boys laugh when they hear their stomachs growl in response.

 

Food can wait though. Studying at the library can wait. The entire universe can fucking wait.

 

Right now all that matters is their naked bodies pressed together, desire and contentedness. Grown boys making love to each other in the navy blue twilight of a childhood bedroom.


	7. The Dry!Series

\--- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Justin wakes up to muffled atmosphere and the droll sound of a radio announcer listing off schools that are closed for the day. The window panes are frosty and glowing so bright against the venetian blinds, that Justin covers his head with his pillow. It smells like Brian.

 

His cell phone begins to ring then, vibrating at the same time, and Justin always has to fight back the urge to smash it like a bug and answer it instead. The color screen reads 'Brian', and Justin is glad that once again, he resisted his dark side.

 

"'morning," Justin yawns into the phone, rolling back under his pillow where it's safe and warm and the fabric feels strangely better now that Brian is talking to him.

 

"Hey. We don't have school today."

 

"I figured. I heard the radio on down in the kitchen. Mom would've woken me up if I had to go."

 

Something's shuffling and fidgeting on Brian's end of the line, and Justin closes his eyes and pretends that it's Brian laying next to him.

 

"Wanna go sledding?"

 

Justin laughs, and wishes he could kiss him. "What? I didn't know you liked sledding. Do you keep your sleds in the same stash as your comic books and 'The Emperor's New Groove' DVD?"

 

"Shut the fuck up. And that movie's fucking _hilarious_. You practically pissed your cargos."

 

"Uh, no. I practically shot all over them. You were giving me a hand-job, remember?"

 

Brian practically purrs in response, and Justin puts his hand between his legs and starts to fondle himself through his briefs.

 

"So, do you still wanna go sledding? 'Cause if you want to, I'll go." His voice sounds lazy, and he counts on Brian instantly knowing why.

 

The voice that buzzes back sounds the same, "Hold on a minute, let me get off first."

 

Breathing together over electronic lines, thousands of molecules in the air like snowflakes. All merging together to create this timed perfection of shared space, with physical distance.

 

"Are you _hard_ , Brian?"

 

A hitched sigh and filtered groan is his response. He knows Brian won't talk dirty back, not when he's at home, but Justin still wants Brian to come from _his_ words, and he wants it to sound the same way the day feels: muffled and glowing.

 

"I wish you were here. I want to slide my hand under the sheets and find your cock instead of mine. Your perfect, beautiful cock... so smooth and hard and _hot_. I want to twist your pubic hair in my fingers and bury my nose in it."

 

His words feel scattered, like he can't even grasp them even though he's saying them. Everything is fragmented and erotic, and Justin can't distinguish between the vision in his mind, the shallow pants in his ear, and his own hand moving deep and purposefully over his aching erection and heavy balls.

 

"God, I want you inside of me," Justin sighs, wistful for something he knows so intimately, but is unable to have right at this one fleeting morning moment, "You move so fucking _perfectly_ when you fuck me. Hit that place inside of me over and over and over. S-sometimes I wish, I wish you could just crawl inside... that I'd nev-never be away from you, and you'd alwa-ays be apart of, of me. Deep, pumping, harder. Oh fuck, Brian, get your ass over here right the fuck now. _Please_."

 

Maybe it's the desperation in his voice, or maybe it actually _was_ his words, but he hears Brian hold his breath and tip over the brink of ecstasy, and Justin fists himself faster to just catch the end of Brian's orgasm with his. White, ropey come all over his chest, and it makes Justin feel so homesick, he _aches_.

 

"Are you coming over?"

 

His voice sounds pitiful.

 

"I'll be over in fifteen minutes, Justin."

 

Justin feels the homesickness ebb away into post-coital blossoming.

 

"Good," he says, closing his eyes and burying his head in his pillow again, "Bring your sled."

 

Five minutes later he gets a text message: _You are so hot._

 

And ten minutes after that, Brian rouses him by throwing a snowball against his window, and greeting him with a lopsided grin- holding up two sleds.


	8. The Dry!Series

This is part two of the chapter before it. Re-read chapter 7 if you want to remember what happened.

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

It's that same snowy grey day in February. School's cancelled, traffic doesn't exist, and all the kids are heading up to the hill behind the school building with neon-colored plastic sleds, and hey, they weren't going to be left out. [Brian insisted. He'll blame it on Justin, that _Justin_ whined to go sledding, but it's a lie. However, it's a lie Justin will live with. He kind of finds it adorable.] 

 

They make a detour to the Kinney household, tromping as quietly as they can through the kitchen to get M&M's from the bag above the fridge. Brian snuffs in quiet laughter as he pushes handfuls into the front pocket of Justin's snowboarding pants, Justin gripping his wrist and playfully wrenching away. 

 

They leave puddles of mud and cindersnow, and are halfway across the yard when the backdoor swings open and Mr. Kinney shouts for his sonnyboy to _get your ass back in the house!!_

 

He has gotten his socks wet in a puddle on the linoleum. 

 

Justin is told to wait outside.

 

Ten minutes later, Brian returns with a split lip, a bruise blossoming on his cheekbone, and shoulders hunched.

 

"I slipped. Our boots made the floor really slippery," he says, not looking at Justin, tongue darting out and sliding over his sore lip. Expression closed off like the filmsy backdoor that had slammed shut behind Mr. Kinney, loose window rattling ominously.

 

Justin knows better.

 

"Or you had a sledding accident," he offers as another excuse to tell, "I jumped on your sled while we were going down - knocked you off."

 

Brian smiles as best he can, pulls on his gloves with rough little tugs. "That makes me sound like a pussy."

 

"And makes me sound like a twat."

 

Justin grins cheekily, face flushed from the cold, but eyes wise with concern.

 

"We're the perfect pair, then." Brian glances over as he begins to walk, grabs the sled from Justin's hands, "Don't look at me like that."

 

"Look at you like what?"

 

"And don't play dumb, Justin," he sighs.

 

"Oooookay. First, I'm 'looking at you like that', and now I'm playing dumb? Jesus, Brian, I'm not doing anything."

 

Justin wishes that Brian's voice sounded the way it did when he came, all gasping and groaning and fucking _delighted_ , during the phone sex earlier. Now it just sounds... threadbare.

 

"You always do this- act like it's not a big deal --"

 

"-- Fuck that, it IS a big deal!" Justin interrupts, grated and outraged.

 

"It isn't! But you act like it isn't 'cause you want to spare me," he spits the words like they're disgusting, "or something. Fuck you, _Sunshine_. I'm not going to break like some silly faggot. I'm not going to cry to my fucking _boyfriend_ just because my dad hits me."

 

Justin stops walking. 

 

"Don't talk to me like that. Just because you're stupid fucking defense mechanism has kicked in, I don't deserve to take that shit. As your friend, as your boyfriend, but most of all, as someone who fucking loves you, you son of a bitch. ... now can we go sledding already? It was your goddamn idea in the first place."

 

They stare at each other for a second, Brian's eyes changing from angry to realizing to a sorry he'll never be able to express.

 

"Justin."

 

He waves Brian off, trudging away from him and into the hedge that surrounds Mrs. Butterbee's yard. Before he can push through the snow-covered hemlock branches, Justin's tugged violently backwards by a hand gripping the back of his ski coat.

 

"I'm sorry," Brian whispers into his ear, putting his arms around Justin's body and holding him so tightly, Justin feels like he can't breathe. Like when there's too much icy wind and it's right in your face and you can't get a proper lung-full of air.

 

Now that Justin thinks about it, he probably feels like that every single time he is with Brian. But in a good way. In a desperate, drowning, overwhelmed, fucking _in love_ way.

 

Brian turns him around so that Justin has no choice but to look up at him. He raises his hand and skims his fingertips over Brian's expression, all honest, and hesitant, and abused. The bloody crack in Brian's lip is warm and swollen.

 

"This...," Justin swallows, stares at the cut, "Fuck, _Brian_..."

 

Brian's hand closes over Justin's and pulls it away from his mouth, warm breath turning into a crystalized fog between them, and the snow crunches under their boots as Justin leans into Brian's chest. He clutches the lapels of Brian's ratty old army jacket, and feels the heavy arm of his boyfriend settle around his shoulders.

 

"I'm okay. I'm okay. It's okay." Brian's mumble matches the frayed evergreen branches around them - cold, resiliant, and alive; brushing Justin's face with reassurance. 

 

They share a brief kiss, and Justin tucks one of his hands in Brian's pocket until they arrive at the hill, and it's way more fun to throw snowballs at Daphne Chanders than it is to think about abusive fathers and breakable skin. 

 

It's hours later when they trudge home, all wet socks and numb noses. Brian insists on walking Justin home, and once they're there, Justin insists on Brian spending the night. After all, what's a hot shower and a warm cocoon of a bed without his boyfriend? 

 

It's so much better than phone sex.


End file.
